


like this

by CaughtAGhost



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Suicide, seriously miserable, this is unedited cathartic death fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:29:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaughtAGhost/pseuds/CaughtAGhost
Summary: Tony starts university. The higher the high, the lower the lows.





	like this

**Author's Note:**

> end note contains major spoilers and more detailed descriptions of the warnings in the tags

When Tony starts school, he feels the ache of loneliness like a serrated knife in his gut; he dulls it by deciding, solemnly and seriously, to stay alone on purpose. (He tells himself, anyways, that it’s a choice, and not something inexplicable about him that drives people away from him. When he considers that maybe he’s just _like this_ , his chest tightens and that’s when he starts to panic and he doesn’t have time to panic.)

It goes like this:

 

He moves himself in because he doesn’t have a family and his only friends live across the country, but it’s okay because he’s finally doing something and he makes the mistake of optimism. Mixed with the acid of anxiety that buzzes in his veins all hours of the night, he doesn’t really sleep and he hardly breathes the first two weeks because he’s hyper focused on doing things right and relishing the freedoms of living on his own.

They don’t give him a roommate. People call him lucky, and he grins and says he’s got the gods on his side, but really he wishes maybe that the room wasn’t so empty all the time. Wishes he could hear another person breathing from time to time. Because having no roommate makes it easy to work all hours of the night, and then it’s dawn and then he’s late for class and he hasn’t showered but he was just so _focused._

He doesn’t even need to work that hard, is the thing. But he does, for something to do, while he watches people pass him by down the hall in small groups, chattering on their way to dinner, on their way to class, on their way to parties. Always in groups, he thinks, _humans are, after all, pack animals._ And if he howled at the moon there wasn’t a soul in his world to howl back and he laughs until he doesn’t think it’s funny anymore and stares dead at the wall.

By month two, his name has gotten around. Everyone knows him, he’s Tony Stark, he’s a fucking miracle. He goes from utterly alone and forgetting the sound of his own voice to receiving more attention than he knows what to do with, and it’s intoxicating, it’s a rush, it’s perfect. He gets high on it. People crowd around him at meals, they laugh when he talks, they always laugh, laugh like he’s the funniest fucking person on the planet even when Tony isn’t being that funny at all. And their eyes are glazed and hungry and they stare at him, stare through him, he’s popular, he’s famous because he’s already getting recognized for his research. He’s a novelty and they see his shining record and his brilliant smile but no one sees the way his hands tremble, holding a mug of black coffee and staring red-eyed at the wall at two in the morning because something hurts and he doesn’t have a name for it.

With popularity comes parties, though, and quickly Tony discovers the most efficient method of numbing that nameless hurt. He gets drunk on cheap liquor at a frat house party and he feels like he’s flying again, he’s riding the high again, manic highs, peaks higher than the fucking sun. (And lows, always lows, in the next day, waking up at 3 PM with a throbbing head and empty bed; lows lower than the bottom of the Mariana trench.)

Cheap liquor, on weekends, just Saturday nights, and then Fridays, too; and Sundays, because the weekend only comes once a week, right?

And he still tops the class, tops it by a mile. They ask him how he holds so much in his head and he doesn’t really know. It’s a sinking feeling, when they ask him that. He didn’t do anything special, he doesn’t work very hard to earn it. He’s just _like that_ , he was just built that way, wired that way. he tries to explain it, once. At a party, buzzed and sad, talking to some girl he doesn’t know who keeps stroking his chest.

“That’s why it’s so impressive,” she says, popping her bubblegum and smiling drunkenly. “Because you’re special.”

That makes it worse because he didn’t earn it. he hasn’t earned a thing in his life, and he goes on a bender and fails a midterm just to see what it feels like. (The professor throws out the lowest grade anyways, turns out, so Lucky Tony Stark skates by again. _What can I say? The gods are on my side.)_

Vodka, vodka, vodka, sleep, repeat. He realizes he’s drinking on weekdays now, too. Not all the time, but he finds himself drifting to parties when he should be writing papers, or eating, or sleeping. He can’t stand the empty buzz being alone, even in a crowded dining hall, so he doesn’t go. He surrounds himself with people, he gets wasted and fucks girls, gets wasted and fucks guys. He literally doesn’t care, at this point. He’ll sleep with anybody, once, (usually _only_ once,) and everyone knows it. He’s good looking, and famous, and rich and smart, a genius, even, so he’s never lacking for willing participants.

He falls into bed with a blonde built like a brick house one night. More like he falls right _into_ him. He staggers into the hall at a party and spills his drink on the guy’s pants. 

“Ooh, fuck. Watch it. . . . Fuck, ‘m sorry,” Tony slurs. His eyes feel like they’re rolling, he’s that drunk he can’t even talk right or see right. He’ll be sick later, but he isn’t yet so he’s making the most of it.

“It’s okay. Are you okay?” Hot blonde asks, and Tony hiccups and throws his empty cup on the ground and he looks at him, up and down. He grins.

“You’ll do.”

“I’ll do for what?” Blonde starts to ask, but Tony stumbles forward, catching himself by throwing his arms around the other’s neck,kissing him clumsily against the wall. The blonde guy makes a startled noise but his lips are like candy and he isn’t stumbling at all.

“Hey, ‘re you drunk?” Tony asks, pulling back a few inches. 

“No. I’m Steve,” Steve replies. And Tony laughs because for some reason that’s really funny, and he sighs,

“ _Steve_ ,” and kisses him some more—

— and wakes up in a spare room, tucked into bed with a glass of water on the night table. Tony snaps upright, disoriented. His hair sticks to the side of his face as if glued their by the pillow and Tony’s tongue feels like a corpse in his mouth. He stabs his hand out beside him, looking for his phone. He finds a note.

_Hi, drunk guy. You weren’t feeling good last night so I tucked you in. Hope you’re doing okay. -Steve_

Tony doesn’t remember a Steve. He remembers the kiss, though, and cracks up all over again.

*

He tries speed for the first time at a nice party. It’s a gala, actually; an event centered around an engineering project that Tony guesses he’s somehow contributed to in between drunken parties and skipping class. He wears a nice suit and forgets to comb his hair and everyone thinks that’s real charming, and that his hangover sunglasses are just a style choice, because it’s 8 at night so no one would expect even him to be hungover.

When he gets too antsy sitting still, (and the complimentary flute of champagne goes real quick), Tony excuses himself to the bathroom. He locks the door and thinks he’s alone. Fishes a silver flash from his jacket pocket and takes a few swigs and stares at his reflection.

His sunglasses just barely cover the deep bags under his eyes. 

He stares at himself. He stares, and his eyes are unseeable beneath his glasses. It’s like he doesn’t have a soul. He grins. “You piece of shit,” he says. His voice sounds like rocks dragging on sand. 

Someone moves behind him, in his reflection, and he almost has a heart attack because he thought he was alone.

It’s a professor, looking confused, and Tony feels nervous. But he’s cool, apparently, because he offers Tony a little baggy of white powder and says it’s good, and Tony tries it, and it is good. It makes him feel like a fucking firework.

He hasn’t felt this feeling in a while, he realizes. He hasn’t felt high. He could jump through the fucking ceiling and that’s perfect, that’s just what he needs. He has been all lows, lately, and he only just noticed now, but it doesn’t matter because he’s high and he could fly, he’s certain he could fly—

And he shakes hands and _hi how’re you doing fantastic im fantastic thanksfantastichowreyou doing its incredible im incredible life’s incredible_. (Later, they say he was the life of the party. Tony crashes so hard that night that he passes out for almost the whole next day. The rest of the week feels as bleak as a winter shadow and he cries into the shower drain, sobs shaking his ribcage like earthquakes.)

He meets Steve again, and this time he’s sober (mostly) and when he kisses him, Steve looks conflicted a half second before kissing him back, hard. _Yes._ Kissing him against a wall, pushing him through an open door and shutting it behind him as he shucks off layers of clothes, _yes yes yes_ , and they fuck like they’re trying to hurt each other and afterward Steve goes real quiet, and says, 

“I’m sorry.”

Tony laughs. Steve frowns, rolling over in he dark. “What?”

“You’re sorry,” Tony says, and tears roll down his cheeks, he’s laughing that hard. He rolls over, too, facing Steve. He knows he must look half insane. He kisses Steve and snakes a hand lower, under the covers. “Want to do it again?”  


They do.

*

After that, they trade numbers and meet up a lot to fuck. Steve won’t fuck Tony if he knows he’s been drinking, so Tony gets better at doing it on the down low, and every time they collide it’s like thunder and lightning, every time. 

And sometimes they talk, Steve looks out the window and talks about art and Tony lights a cigarette and feels guilty and pretends to listen. His brain won’t quiet down, though; Steve’s words go in one ear and out the other, and Tony’s eyes go glassy and he’s in a trance, tracing patterns on Steve’s back with one finger. He blows exhales a ring and flicks glowing ashes at the floor.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” Steve says.

“I don’t,” Tony says. The moon is an eye, tonight.

*

Tony drinks with breakfast and he’s finally skipping enough class that his grades are suffering. He’s also apparently gotten himself a reputation now. He’s no golden boy, that’s for sure. He gets dirty looks and people he doesn’t know hate him, and people he doesn’t know love him, and Tony couldn’t give a fuck.

He buys coke from the professor from the gala and does a line alone in his room and rides the high straight through the ceiling. He calls Steve up because there’s nothing he wants to do more with the energy than fuck. And it’s the best sex Steve’s ever had and he’s all blushing and smiling when they’re done and Tony crashes, passing out in the nook of Steve’s arm.

*

He does coke in the cafeteria bathroom.

*

Somewhere along the line, he stops sleeping with other people, he realizes. When did that happen?  


* 

_I don’t have feelings for Steve._ He proves it to himself by letting some random guy fuck him at a party, but Tony’s so drunk that he throws up halfway through and the guys gets pissed because he didn’t finish yet and that’s fucking disgusting whatthefuckiswrongwithyou—

Funny, as if there were one easy answer to the question.

*

“Ever think about after this?” Steve asks. Tony’s facing away, pouring himself a drink. They’re both naked. No moonlight tonight. Closed blinds and the sound of frozen rain assaulting the window pain, _plat plat plat plat_.

“After what?”

“After we graduate. You going to get married, or start a company or something?” Steve asks. Tony blinks, frozen for a second. He continues pouring, and shoots his drink and then pours another real sly.

“Is that a thing people do?” Tony asks.

“Yeah. Of course,” Steve says. Tony hears him frown. Then he thinks that maybe they know each other too well, that Tony can hear the expression on Steve’s face, see it clear as crystal in his head. “You really don’t think about that? What you’re going to do with your life?”

Tony thinks of everything he could be doing. All the resources and opportunities he has been squandering, all of his fuck ups and failures, and the utter apathy of it all. Tony says, “I don’t really care. What happens to me. I’m just living in the moment.”

Steve doesn’t reply, and Tony can hear his breath, soft and barely audible over the harsh rhythm of the rain. Later, it occurs to Tony that normal people don’t think of life as something happening to you, something you passively endure. 

*

It makes sense, though, because Tony does a lot of coke and he drinks a lot, but he doesn’t actively do much else. 

Finals come and go in the dead of winter, and Tony does a stint in the emergency room because he celebrates hard when his grades come in, and passes out in a snowbank halfway between a party and his dorm. To his non-surprise, no one visits in the hospital. He thinks about texting Steve, but he decides better of it. That’s for friends. That’s for real people.

(The Tony Starks of this world get all the company they need from the steady beeping of a heart monitor and a flask snuck into his private hospital room.)

*

Tony wins an award for excellence in something or other. He forgets to show up for his own ceremony. He hears second hand that someone had a meltdown at the announcement; apparently someone wanted that award bad, and Tony feels like shit because he doesn’t even remember what he did to earn it.

Steve shows up at Tony’s dorm in the middle of the night. “Your award banquet was great,” he says. He comes into Tony’s room like it’s his own. He’s more than familiar with it.

“You went?”

“You invited me. If you don’t recall,” Steve says. Surprisingly, Steve sounds bitter. He clips his words and his posture is measured and he keeps his eyes pointedly away from Tony’s. Tony stands there with his shoulders sagging.

“I don’t recall.”  
  
“I know.”

*

Apparently, the guy who really wanted the award wanted it bad enough that the day after Tony wins it, ambulances whiz through campus. There’s a whole spectacle. Whispers float like thin grey clouds. It turns out, the guy tried to kill himself.

That feels really great. That’s Tony’s bad. 

He should just die. 

* 

Coke.

Coke.

Coke.

Ketamine.

Coke.

Adderall.

Coke.

*

Finals are a month away and it feels like the semester only just started.

It’s a blur. Tony’s lost weight. He doesn’t come out of his room anymore, except to fuck Steve. The sex is different. Steve always seems sad and Tony gets tired and falls asleep underneath him.

Steve asks if Tony’s having fun, and Tony decides to get pissy because he’s defensive. He tells Steve to fuck off.

“Tony,” Steve says. 

“I said to fuck off, Rogers,” Tony snaps. His hands are shaking almost too much to light his fucking cigarette. He burns his finger with the lighter and hardly feels it. Steve’s expression sours.

“I hate it when you fucking smoke.”

Tony grins and there’s nothing happy about it. He blows smoke in Steve’s face. Steve slaps the cigarette out of Tony’s hand. It lands on Tony’s thigh and the skin blisters. Tony blinks, not reacting. He smells it.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ,_ ” Steve says, brushing the thing off of Tony’s leg. Tony doesn’t move; Steve looks guilty and petrified and the darkest, cruelest party of Tony thinks, _Good._

(He pretends that it means Steve cares. This is the closest Tony’s come, to love. Too close, even. The burn will scar.)

“Go,” Tony says. His voice is flat and even, terrifyingly so. He sees it in Steve’s eyes, the terror. Sees his own crazy reflected back at him. Tony won’t flinch, faced with himself. Can’t flinch.

Steve goes, and that’s how Tony knows it means nothing. It’s nothing. He’s nothing. He laughs until he cries until he vomits because his leg _hurts_ and he deluded himself into feeling like he mattered and that was the biggest mistake, the biggest joke. Joke’s always on him. 

*

It goes like this:

Steve comes back to Tony’s dorm the week before finals because he feels like an ass. There are a thousand things he would like to say, but the words dry up whenever they’re together. Tony speaks so well with his body that it’s hard for Steve to remember how to think in sentences, but it doesn’t have to be like that, and Steve thinks they probably shouldn’t be like that, not all the time. Not if this (whatever this is) is going to go anywhere.

And this is the part Steve rehearses a thousand times on the way over, _“and I’d really like for this to be going somewhere, Tony.”_

No. Sounds. . . cliched.

After finals, summer will be here and Tony will be moving out and Steve doesn’t even know where he’ll be going home to. He doesn’t know enough about him. 

 

But it goes like this:

he knocks on the door and no one answers. And he knocks again, because Tony’s shoes are there, outside the door, and he can see a sliver of light shining beneath the crack in the door.

Silence.

Steve leans close to the door, and says, “Tony?”

Silence.

Ice drops into his stomach, and in hindsight, maybe it was some kind of premonition, some kind of psychic bad feeling, because Steve didn’t cognitively have any idea what he was about to discover. It goes in slow motion, once he digs the spare key out of its hiding place. Steve can hear Tony’s clock ticking the seconds by, just inside, and the world falls apart between beats.

The door swings open, and Tony’s on the floor,

_Tick._

The smell of vomit, the stench of alcohol,

_Tick._

A dried black line of blood running from Tony’s nose to his mouth, the white powder on the floor, the pill bottle on the desk,

_Tick._

Steve kneels by him, shakes him, 

_Tick._

“Tony. Tony, Tony. Wake up, are— Wake up.”

_Tick._

Dead eyes, open. That same ghost of a miserable smile frozen into his cold face, the echo of a mirthless laugh curled inside his blue mouth.

*

(Steve never finds out, for sure. If it was an accident.)

That’s what they say, though. When it hits the news. And the campus mourns, it’s a whole to-do, they lower the flag and give a speech about the tragedy of the loss of the brightest mind of the generation. 

And some freshman are really glad because they cancelled exams for most of the school.

And a certain professor slinks around the edge of the wake and asks _is it true? what they say? that he overdosed? was it cocaine? it’s such a shame when the bright ones get into—_

(Steve has to know, it burns him like a cigarette singeing his skin: was it an accident?)

Maybe it bothers him so much because deep down, he knows. Deep down, he says it there in his first memory of Tony, like a seed, the potential for this. There aren’t family members at the funeral, and Steve’s mouth goes dry when they don’t have a eulogy because no one actually quite knows for sure who Tony associated with. It seems he didn’t keep close friends. Social butterflies, you know. (That’s what they say.)

And it feels like a sin, now, all the empty pillow talk or wordless sex. Noticing the dark circles, the dead lilt to his voice, the way his gaze would drift off and he’d stare at a meaningless point for what seemed like ages.

Steve wonders if there was something he could have done. _Maybe he was just like that._

**Author's Note:**

> * dub-con tag for sex while under the influence  
> * major character death for Tony committing suicide at the end of the fic, but the whole thing is leading up to that
> 
>  
> 
> this is really depressing this is really plotless and self indulgent. am deeply miserable right now, struggling with suicidal ideation and impulses while trying to do well in college and word vomited this monster out.


End file.
